Daniel and Jake discovered their nervous rescue dog pawing at an unconscious old woman who was just surviving after he ran off into the woods.
She wouldn’t have lived another hour, according to the paramedics. However, who was she and why did their dog appear to be able to locate her with ease?
Four months ago, we picked up our dog, Buddy, from a rural Pennsylvania shelter. His eyes were the saddest I had ever seen, and he was thin and frightened, with one ear that never stood up.
When we paused by his kennel, the shelter’s volunteer, a weary-looking woman with graying hair, moaned.
She remarked, “He’s been here the longest,” “People overlook him because he’s older.”
I only needed to hear that. That day, Jake, my husband, and I signed the documents.
Buddy wasn’t flawless. He would whimper in his sleep from nightmares. He snarled at thunder as though it were going to attack him directly. We never understood why he would not walk close to men wearing baseball caps. But in that frantic manner rescue dogs love, he adored us with all his heart.
He would lie near the door every night as if he were protecting us from something that only he could perceive.
One evening, I asked Jake, “What do you think he’s protecting us from?”
Jake grinned and added, “Maybe ghosts,” “Or maybe just his own past.”
We made the decision to hike the historic Ridgeway Trail with him last week. It’s peaceful and one of those spots where the sunshine shines through the trees like gold. It smelled of damp earth and pine, and I felt like I could breathe for the first time in weeks.
Buddy died while we were approximately two miles in.
His tail stiffened, his ears pricked up, and he ran off the path.
I yelled, “Buddy!” as my voice reverberated across the trees.
Following him, Jake and I pushed through low-hanging branches and stumbled over roots. As we smashed through the undergrowth, my lungs burned. I couldn’t stop seeing him sprinting down a road or vanishing into the dense forest.
We discovered him pawing at something close to a downed tree, some fifty yards distant.
It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. She was the one. An old woman, still and pale, lying on the ground.
Her skin felt cold to the touch, and her gray hair was matted with leaves.
I put my fingers to her neck right away to feel for a pulse. It was present, but not very strong. It was so subtle that I nearly missed it.
I said, “Jake, call 911,” while attempting to maintain my composure. “Now.”
I knelt next to her while Jake scrambled for his phone. Buddy sat beside me, licking her hand and whimpering slightly as though he was trying to wake her. He made a peculiar moan, as if he were mourning for a deceased loved one.
And then, for a moment, her eyes opened. She gave me a direct glance.
Then she muttered, “Home…”
Her eyes then closed once again.
The paramedics showed up in a matter of minutes. They wrapped her in thermal blankets and checked her vitals rapidly.
A young man with a buzz cut was among them, and he gazed up at us grimly.
His words, “She’s hypothermic,” “Probably would’ve died within the hour. You saved her life.”
We told her we didn’t know her when they inquired.
They then carried her back through the woods to the ambulance after loading her onto a stretcher. With his tail between his legs, Buddy whined as he watched them leave.
Throughout the journey home, she was on my mind constantly. Who goes into the woods by themselves when it’s thirty degrees outside? She was out there, but why? Was her family trying to find her?
I couldn’t bear not knowing the following day. To find out if she had arrived, I called the hospital.
A cheerful-sounding nurse responded. “Oh yes, she’s stable. Her name’s Margaret.”
I exclaimed, “That’s great,” with relief. “I’m glad she’s okay.”
Something turned cold in my chest when the nurse gave me her entire name.
Because a family with that precise last name had owned the small blue house we purchased last year.
Was it a coincidence? Was I thinking too much?
I had trouble sleeping that night. My mind was racing with questions, and I kept turning and tossing. I eventually got up and went to the office at around midnight.
At closing, the realtor gave us an old folder, which I took out. A few letters from the former owner’s estate, maintenance records, and title transfer documentation were all contained there. With trembling hands, I leafed through them under the desk lamp.
At that moment, I noticed an old utility bill. As I read the name, my heart skipped a beat.
Margaret.
Oh my, I thought. This isn’t possible.
I yelled, “Jake,” my voice breaking. “Jake, come here, please. You need to see this.”
He rubbed his eyes and emerged in the doorway. “What’s wrong? It’s the middle of the night.”
I held up the paper and remarked, “The woman in the woods,” “She used to live here. In our house.”
Jake’s gaze widened. Taking the paper from me, he read it repeatedly as if the words may change.
Whispering, “That’s impossible,” he said. “What are the odds?”
The following morning, while waiting for someone to answer, I called the hospital once more, my heart racing.
The nurse hesitated when I identified myself as one of the individuals who discovered Margaret.
She exclaimed, “Oh! You’re the couple with the dog,” her voice warming up abruptly. “Margaret has been asking for you.”
“She has?” I was incredulous.
“She keeps saying she needs to thank the men with the dog. Can you come by?”
That afternoon, we went to see her and brought cookies and flowers. As we made our way down the hospital hallway, my hands were perspiring. I had no idea what to anticipate or what we would say to one another.
She gave us a feeble smile from her bed as we entered her room. Her eyes were clearer today, but her face remained pale.
Softly, “You found me,” she said.
Buddy leaped to his feet, wildly waving his tail. He was too excited now that we had sneaked him in beneath Jake’s jacket.
Her hand trembled as she stretched out and caressed his head. She ran her fingers through his fur like if she had done it a million times.
She said, “You still remember me, don’t you, boy?”
Jake and I looked at each other bewildered.
“Wait, what?” I said as I moved toward the bed. “You know him?”
She started crying. She continued to touch Buddy while they poured down her cheeks.
She declared, “I raised this dog,”
The words lingered in the atmosphere. I had the impression that I had just been punched in the stomach.
With gentleness, Jake said, “What do you mean?”
Margaret used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. “I had a golden mix named Max for 12 years. He was my whole world after my husband died.
But when I got sick and had to go to the hospital two years ago, he ran away. I searched everywhere when I got out. Put up flyers, called every shelter within a hundred miles. But I never found him.”
When she mentioned the name Max, Buddy cocked his head. He gave her a little whine and then put his paw on her arm the way he always did when he wanted attention.
We couldn’t speak.
“The shelter must have picked him up,” Margaret added. “Changed his name, I suppose. I prayed every night that someone kind would take him in. That he’d find a good home.”
“I guess your prayers worked both ways,” Jake remarked softly.
Margaret gave him a perplexed look.
“We live in your old house,” I answered. “The blue one on Maple Street.”
New tears began to fall down her cheeks as her hand shot to her mouth.
Breathing, “That’s not possible,” she said. “That’s not… how?”
“We bought it last year,” Jake responded.
She said, “My Max brought you to me,” as she gazed at Buddy with such affection that it hurt my chest. “He brought me home one last time.”
After that, we went to see her every few days. There was no family left for her. They had never had children together, and her spouse had passed away five years prior. To pay for nursing home expenses and medical bills, the house had been sold.
She shared anecdotes with us about her childhood there, including the kitchen where she used to make bread on Sundays. The year she married her husband, she planted an apple tree in the backyard, which she also shared with us.
When I told her, “That tree still stands,” her face brightened like a child’s.
She inquired, “Does it still bloom in spring?”
“It does,” confirmed Jake. “Pink blossoms everywhere.”
We received a call from the hospital on a dreary Thursday morning two weeks later. The news was not good.
Margaret had died quietly while she slept.
I was devastated, and so was Jake. For twenty minutes, I sobbed in his arms, reflecting on how unkind it was that we had only recently discovered her.
The nurse then said something that caused me to distance myself from Jake’s shoulder.
The nurse remarked, “She left something for you,” “Could you come by?”
We were given a sealed envelope with our names scrawled in wobbly cursive at the nurses’ station. I opened it with shaky hands.
A brief note on cream-colored stationery was inside.
It said, “Dear Daniel and Jake,” “You gave me peace in my final days. Thank you for bringing my boy home. There’s one more gift waiting for you, something I couldn’t leave behind. I hope it brings you joy.”
In the same unsteady handwriting, she had scrawled an address at the bottom.
Our address was that.
I had no idea what to anticipate when we arrived home. The possibilities rushed through my thoughts. What might she have forgotten? How could we possibly locate it?
We conducted a thorough search of the house. Every cabinet, closet, every drawer. Nothing didn’t seem to belong. Nothing appeared to be concealed.
I said, “Maybe it’s outside?” “Under the apple tree?”
Using a little garden spade, we dug around the tree’s roots for an hour. Old rocks and dirt, nothing.
“What about the attic?” Jake asked.
It had been months since our last trip up there. We had thrown a few boxes up there when we first moved in and had essentially forgotten about them.
We lowered the ladder from the ceiling of the hallway. As it unfolded, the hinges made a creaking sound. The afternoon light entering through the small attic window swirled with dust particles.
Pulling the string to turn on the lone exposed bulb, I ascended first. The scent of mothballs and ancient wood filled the attic.
There was an old wooden trunk in the corner, covered by a dusty tarp. As I approached it, my heart began to race.
The initials M.W. were engraved on the cover.
“Jake,” I whispered. “You need to get up here.”
We ripped off the tarp together. There was no lock on the trunk. The hinges creaked as I raised the lid.
Treasures from a lifetime were inside. There were letters tied with rope, a small jewelry box with a few basic items inside, and black-and-white family photos of a young Margaret with a dashing man in a military uniform.
There was also a yellowed envelope at the bottom that read, “To the next family who calls this house home.”
I unfolded the letter inside with trembling fingers.
“Dear new family,” the greeting said. “This house was built with love. My husband and I chose every board, every nail, and every window with care.
If you are reading this, I hope it brings you the same joy it gave me. Inside the small closet near the stairs, there’s a loose floorboard. Third one from the left wall. Under it, you’ll find a piece of my husband’s dream. He always said a house should take care of its people, even after he was gone. Please use it well.”
Jake and I exchanged glances.
“The coat closet,” we both said simultaneously.
After descending from the attic, we hurried to the first-floor closet. Although I had never looked into it, I had always sensed that the floor was a little uneven.
Jake took out his snow boots and vacuum. I got on my knees and pushed on each floorboard individually.
Under my hand, the third one from the left wall moved.
“Here,” I said.
Jake assisted me in prying it up. There was a little metal box underneath, wrapped in plastic and nestled between the joists.
There was a large envelope inside when I opened it. There was money in it. Ancient currency, painstakingly secured with rubber bands. A notarized letter from fifteen years ago was also found below the cash.
According to the letter, Margaret’s husband had put this money aside in a savings account. Fund for a covert emergency “for whoever keeps the home standing and fills it with love again.”
Unbelieving what we were witnessing, we counted it twice.
The amount exceeded $20,000.
Feeling overwhelmed, I sat back on my heels. Jake put his hand in mine.
He said, “What do we do with this?”
In that hospital bed, Margaret was on my mind. Finally home, Buddy snuggled up next to her. About the apple tree she had so optimistically planted in our backyard.
I responded, “We honor them,”
We established a local animal rescue foundation in Margaret’s honor using a portion of the proceeds. For elderly canines and lonely hearts who unexpectedly cross paths, we named it The Max and Margaret Fund. The first charity to receive a donation was the shelter where we had discovered Buddy.
We used the remaining funds to repair the house. We renovated the kitchen where Margaret had baked bread every Sunday and fixed the porch where she had likely sat with her husband on warm evenings.
I can assure you that Buddy occasionally hears something we are unable to hear when he rests beneath that ancient apple tree in the spring. Perhaps a voice he knew calling him home. Perhaps simply the recollection of a woman who was his first love.
And I like to imagine that Margaret is still here, somewhere, murmuring her last thanks on calm evenings when the breeze is just perfect and the petals are falling like snow.
Sincerely, we weren’t the ones who rescued her from the woods that day.
Just in time for her to say goodbye, her dog returned home.
